Running
by AlihandriaEllis
Summary: Ekaterina Petrovia is a Soviet Union gymnast who defects to England. There, she meets four charming singers and falls in love with one of them. But what happens when her former country wants her back? Rated T because I swear. NOW UP FOR ADOPTION
1. Leaving Home

**Hello, wonderful people who are reading this. I was pulling a 2:00 bedtime when I wrote this and I like the idea so I'm gonna make a series out of it. Yay for late-night writing! This is set in the March of 1964 in the Soviet Union. This was inspired by all the amazing athletes who defected from Communist countries. What they did was unspeakably brave and this story is dedicated to them. So, without further ado, here is chapter one of Running.**

**Disclaimer: Even though they aren't here, don't own the Beatles.**

I'm running. My lungs are on fire. My legs are being torn to ribbons on the thorns and barbed wire scattered on the ground. The pack I wear on my back contains my birth certificate, a change of clothes, some bread and enough money to buy passage to England. Dogs bark and I know they are close.

"Стоп!" I hear the men yell. I pick up my speed. If they catch me, I'm dead. Perhaps I should explain who I am and why these people want me to remain in the Soviet Union so much.

My name is Ekaterina Petrov. I was born in Leningrad on February 17th, 1945. I'm an olympian gymnast. In the 1960 games in Tokyo, I won gold in floor practice, balance beam and all-around for both my team and individually. I also received silver in uneven bars.

When I was five years old, I was singled out for my natural flexibility. Torn from my parents, I was placed in a special school. There, I had almost no formal education. I was taught English and gymnastics. Nothing else. One day, when I six, I found the library. It became my safe-haven. After a few months of struggle, I taught myself to read. And those books did something the government feared. They opened my mind. For the first time, I could think for myself.

My instructor, Alexei Nemtsov, soon learned of my passion for learning. He began to bring me books in secret. Books that told of beautiful places with beautiful names. France, Italy, Britain, America...so foreign, so _free. _Places where I could be with my parents. Where I could go to real school. Where I could go wherever I wanted whenever I wanted. Where the Government didn't control me.

I first started thinking of running away when I was thirteen. _Britain, _I remember deciding. _I'll go to Britain._ An island protected by a queen, with an army. A place where Communism could never touch me again.

The year I turned 14, the Tokyo Olympics occurred. When the plane touched down, I thought I was in heaven. A place where you could do whatever you wanted to do. And there were supposedly places that were better.

While competing, I talked with people from other countries. It confirmed my beliefs that fleeing to Britain was the best option. I already spoke fluent English and the people seemed nice enough. Once I returned home, though, I was the pride and joy of the Soviet Union. _Look at her, _they seemed to say. _Look at what Communism created._

I was trapped. Completely, utterly trapped. And I hated every minute of it. I stood it for three years, drowning out the world in my training and my learning. But the more I learned, the more I wanted..._needed_ to escape. After voicing my opinions to Alexei, he agreed to help me. Which leads back to where I am now, running for my life.

I trip, slicing my palms on some barbed wire. Stumbling back to my feet, I ignore the hot blood flowing over my calloused hands. I'm dodging tree branches when a thought comes to me.

My palms sting in protest as I pull myself onto the nearest tree branch. I dash from limb to limb like some sort of rodent, increasing the gap between me and my pursuers. This is just like balance beam...at least, I tell myself that. Eventually, voices fade, giving way to blessed silence. Finding a tree hollow, I curl up in a ball and wait for sleep to claim me.

The next morning dawns cold and bright. Seizing a piece of bread from my meagre stash, I slide out of the tree. I have to keep moving...the last words Alexei said to me..._don't stop, don't hesitate, don't look back. If at all possible, I will join you in Britain. Good luck, мой цветок._

The coat I'm wearing is painfully thin, doing little to protect me from the cold. A new layer of snow coats the ground, crunching under my feet. Water quickly seeps into my shoes. Feeling in my toes leave soon after that. But I must keep moving.

After two days, my supply of food runs out despite careful rationing. Now a painful gnawing feeling in my stomach joins my aching feet, stinging palms and the agonizing cold.

Three more days pass. At least, I think it was three days. I'm delirious from lack of food. What little body fat I once had is gone along with several other kilograms I couldn't afford to lose. Step after step...dark falls, but I must move. The world is spinning and blurring. As I pass out, the last thing I see is the figure of a person running to me.

It's warm and bright. The bed I'm lying on is soft...oh, no. I've been found.

"Hello, Ekaterina," an old woman says as she walks into the room carrying soup. She hands me the steaming bowl and I begin shoveling it into my mouth.

"Who are you?" I finally ask after my stomach has been filled. She smiles and sits down next to me.

"I am a friend...that is all you need to know," she smiles.

"How did you know who I was?" I shoot upright, suddenly scared.

"They are searching for you...don't worry, I won't turn you in," she soothes. Suddenly, I understand why she didn't tell me her name. If I was captured, I couldn't give her away.

I remain with the woman for a few more days before leaving. It was safer for both of us if I kept moving. So I pack some food and leave, thanking her for her hospitality, friendship and generosity.

After a few days I look a mess again. The cuts marring my palms have reopened, my feet begin to bleed and I am hungry, but not starving. Cold seeps into every fiber of my being yet there is less and less snow on the ground.

The sun rises again, birds chirping and chipmunks chattering. My food stash ran out two days ago so I have no breakfast. If I'm not close to Germany by now, I will die. After a few hours of walking my shoes are soaked through, not with water but with blood. I stop to rest when I hear voices speaking in a rough dialect that I recognize as German.

"Děkuji ti, Pane," I murmur before sitting down. After a few minutes, I feel strong enough to complete my journey. A look at a sign tells me I'm about three kilometers from East Berlin. I should be able to reach it if I travel after dark...It's probably better if I cross the Berlin Wall at night anyway.

**I can't improve without feedback. Love, hate, I would like to know. Please review**


	2. England

**Hello, viewers. How are you today? (If you get that, here's a Ringo-hug) Anyway, here's the next chapter for Running. Thank you all for reviewing. My account did something weird so I couldn't see the reviews, so I had to hunt them down. And when I saw how many there were, my heart exploded with happy. So, here it is.**

**Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it.**

It is late in the night when I reach East Berlin. The wall rises in the distance, an austere backdrop to a city that appears cold and lifeless, like my former home. Pulling my threadbare coat closer, I step onto the cobbled streets.

After walking for what felt like forever, hiding at the slightest noise, I came to the wall. Hidden behind a building, I survey the scene. Guards were placed every five feet, making the chances of me not being noticed plummet to zero. The wall itself was a fifteen-foot concrete block. A glance up, though, revealed several cables running right above the walls. If I could get to those, I could swing across.

Wishing I had a springboard, I scale a building. With my training, it was simple. The cable was about the size of an uneven bar. I don't have any chalk, but I could live without. Saying a silent prayer, I grab the cable and swing into the air.

I'm about halfway when they notice me.

"He, Sie! Stopp!" echoed from below. I ignore them and just keep moving. A clicking sound followed. There is nothing I could do besides keep moving. So help me god, I would _not_ go back.

The sharp crack that echoes through the air jolts me to the point that I almost fall off the cable I was clinging to. They are shooting at me! I move faster.

Gunshots ring through the air. Still I move. _Don't look back, don't look back_...the mantra runs through my head. The shooting stops for a minute. Move, move, move!

More clicking, I'm prepared for what will come next. At least, what I believe will come next. They haven't hit me yet. I smile and solder on.

A boom, then pain. Excruciating pain in my leg. _They hit me! _ The world goes fuzzy for a second, but I refuse to pass out. Not now, after so much struggle. I will not give up now.

The last few feet are torment. I feel the blood drip down my leg into a puddle below. Somehow, though, I drag myself over the wall. The drop, however, was unexpected. And the ground is hard and merciless. By some miracle, I crawl to a bush and hide before the agony becomes too much and I pass out.

People...lots of people buzz around me. Speaking in a colorful language only they understand...Light...so much light...Music, colorful tunes singing of a love I have never known. Oh, my head...

Reality is sharp and clear compared to my dream-world. My leg throbs. A quick look at the wound makes me sick to my stomach. Dried blood is crusted around the hole. It looks like the bullet went straight through, which is good, I guess. Pus is oozing out. If I don't get it taken care of, it will probably get infected, which will of made all of this for nothing. Hands shaking, I rip a strip of cloth off my dress and bandage the injury as best I can. My leg shakes as I stand, but I block it out and walk to the docks.

"A ticket to London," I gasp to the attendant, a bored-looking middle-aged man. He takes one look at me and gives me a ticket in steerage. It's not ideal, but it's what I can afford. The ticket takes up almost all my money, leaving me little to purchase food.

All I can afford is some day-old bread, a few strips of dried beef and some rubbing alcohol. I stagger to the ship, at the point of unconsciousness once again.

Steerage is miserable; cold, dark and crammed. I locate my bunk and unwrap my wound. It has gotten worse. Gritting my teeth, I pour alcohol on it. My screams of pain echoed through the ship. My leg is on fire...sheer fire. Only fire would of burned up my leg by now, leaving nothing. Blissful nothing.

After what feels like forever, the agony subsides, leaving behind a throbbing leg. I wrap it again, eat some food and prepare myself for the night ahead.

Hell is not the word I would use to describe the voyage. Compared to it, hell is a merciful paradise. Huddled in a ball, I prayed to god that this torment would end. The rocking, people getting sick...the stench of sick permeates the air. Finally, after god knows how many days, we land. England...the air is crisp and clean-smelling after the ship. Sun glances off of sparkling water. Here, I am safe.

The immigration office is an excruciating 5 minutes away. At least, it would of been if I hadn't beed shot in the leg. It took me 20. The crowd of screaming girls didn't help either. There must of been hundreds.

As I walk to the building, a guard cuts me off. "You can't go in there," he says before looking me over. His eyes widenslightly when he reached my leg.

"Please, it is a matter of utmost importance. I _must _get through," I plead. A girl accidentally kicks my leg and it gives in from under me. I fall to the ground and know my leg will hold me no longer.

"Please..." I whisper once more. The guard stands there a second before picking me up and carrying me to the building.

"All fans must stay outside!" a man in a suit yells in a prim british accent. I look at him and somehow manage to stand once more.

"My name is Ekaterina Petrovia. I have defected from the Soviet Union. I have been shot and need medical attention. I have my birth certificate to prove my story. Please, I beg of you, let me through," I gasp. My leg gives out again, making me lean on the guard. The man looks at me and helped me to pass.

"Who's the bird?" another man asked. He has long, shaggy hair and a guitar sat next to him. Three more men, dressed the same way and with the same haircuts, also glance at me.

"I am of none of your concern," I groan, feeling my leg throb. I _had_ to get through...the room spun and I force myself to remain upright.

"Miss, you look a little..." the words fade and I feel the world swirl around me, colors and sound fading to silence and black and white.

**Guess who the men with long, shaggy hair are! And you said this had nothing to do with Beatles! Anyway, reviews warm my heart. SO REVIEW! Love you all, bye**


	3. The Hospital

**Ladies and gentlemen, I just got flamed. Honestly, I didn't expect for it to hurt this bad. But when a random stranger goes on to two of your stories and calls you a hoe, says you can't write and tells you to get the fuck of this site…well, lets just say I'm crying right now. So I wanted to take this opportunity to thank everyone who has ever supported me, be it with a review, fav-ing or putting me on alert. Without you, none of this would be here. And I thank you all who don't like this story but have the morals to not flame. I appreciate it.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own it...**

A beeping sound wakes me from my passed-out state. I hear some one moan and it takes me a minute to realize it was me. My leg is throbbing, pain dulled by medication. My head hurts; I hear some one speak and feel a prick on my arm. Reality blurs out again as the drugs take hold.

My dreams are blurred and confusing. Pain...lots of pain. And music. Voices and faces; Alexei, the guards, the men I had met in England...agony, so much agony.

"Miss Petrovia? Miss Petrovia, can you hear me?" A voice says. I manage to open my eyes with great effort. A nurse is looking down on me. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes," I whisper, startled at how rough my voice sounds. My body aches and I feel like death.

"Your leg wound got infected. We kept you in a drug-induced coma for four days. Do you remember what happened to you?" the nurse asks. I nod and she smiles. "What happened to your leg?"

I think for a second before answering. "I...was shot. As I escaped over the Berlin Wall. I tried to disinfect it..."

"And if you hadn't done that you would be dead. The bullet ruptured several arteries. We did reconstructive surgery. You should regain the same range of motion you had before," the nurse grins. I smile weakly.

"Will I be allowed to stay?" I have to know this wasn't for nothing. She nods and I relax.

"Are you tired?" she inquires. I shake my head vehemently and she laughs. "You don't have to go to sleep."

A day passes and I quickly bore of my room. I'm staring at my ceiling when the nurse enters. I turn to her, eager for the distraction.

"You have visitors!" she exclaims, a bit flustered. I look at her curiously. Who could these people be? The door opens and the four men from the immigration office. I smile at them.

"So zees is ze famous gymnast," one of them say it a horrible imitation of a German accent. He laughs at his own bad joke as I look at him, unamused.

"Excuse him," another one says. I glance at him and he smiles. "I'm Paul McCartney, this is George Harrison, this is Ringo Starr and the one with no sense of humor is John Lennon."

I laugh and introduce myself. This is followed by an awkward silence.

"Why are you here?" I ask, playing with the top of my sheet.

"Well, a pretty bird with a Russian accent comes staggering into Immigration and passes out. Call us curious," John grins as he sits down next to me. I blush slightly at him referring to me as pretty. "Do you seriously not know who we are?"

"Should I?"

"We're pretty famous here, hon," John leans back, proud of himself. I roll my eyes and laugh.

"Yeah, right."

"I'm serious!"

"Well, then, what do you do?"

"We're musicians."

"Oh, that explains it."

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?" John smirks, leaning forward.

"My former country censored all media, so it makes sense I wouldn't know you," I explain. Paul looks surprised.

"You mean we're _banned_ there?" he gasps. The look on his face is hilarious.

"All non-communist music is banned there," I laugh. Paul looks relieved.

"And I thought we were special!" John whines before winking at me. I laugh again.

"Visiting's over!" the nurse yells before ushering the boys out.

"Bye!" I grin from my bed. John waves from the door. I smile and lean back into my pillows. "They were nice."

"I still can't believe _The Beatles _came to see you!" the nurse sounds jealous. I shrug, roll over and go to sleep again.

I don't see the other three boys for a while. But John comes every day. We become good friends. John is quite interested in Soviet life and I have an endless curiosity about England. Although John can be a bit of a задница.

After two weeks of hospitalization, I have regained full use of my leg. If all goes well, I'll be out of the hospital by the end of the week. John is visiting as I realize I have nowhere to stay.

"дерьмо!" I groan. John looks at me curiously.

"What is it, Kat?" he asks and leans forward.

"I don't have anywhere to stay," I mutter, still swearing inside my head. John starts laughing. I glare at him.

"I thought we had already talked about this. You're staying with me," John says, still laughing.

"Oh..."

John is there, grinning, two days later as I step out of the hospital. The sun shines as I leap down the steps. London feel so different from Leningrad. It feels light, warm...it feels _free_


	4. Cynthia

**Oh, lord. ****_How _****long has it been since I've updated... I'm sorry, the tardiness of this is due to a mixture of Writer's Block, lack of ideas and family vacations. I feel really guilty about this... **

**Okay, one last thing before I shut up. A lot of people commented about flaming. I just want to say that flaming is rude and has absolutely no point. Like calling the author profanity and just saying it sucks. If you don't like the story and want to comment, please tell me ****_why_**** you don't like it. That way, I can improve. Anyway, I'm gonna shut up now. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Don't own 'em**

_I'm flying. _Wind whips my hair as I reach out for the bar. This is _me. _Never grounded. Another flip, reach up to grab the bar. Uneven bars were never my strong point, but I still managed a silver. Flip again, take that leap of faith, the hope that you'll land. Ground rushes out to meet me and I slide down like a cat. My back arches up and I hit the ending pose. Applause echoes from the back of the gym.

"Bravo, Miss Petrovia," John smiles, walking towards me.

"Thank you, Mr. Lennon," I smile back, dusting some of the chalk from my hands and adjusting my bun. My arms ache slightly. It has been a while since I've tumbled. Rolling my complaining shoulders, I step over to my bag and pull on my sweatpants. A loose top quickly follows and I sling the bag over my shoulder.

"So, how was training?" John opens the door for me as I leave. "Ready to _finally _see my house?"

After I had been released from the hospital, I stayed at a nursing home, due to the fact that I had been in a medically-induced coma for four days. It had taken another four days to relearn how to walk, let alone stay on my own. Another week was needed to fully regain control of my body. After much nagging, I was allowed to begin tumbling a few days ago, so long as I was under supervision. I had been released today and had run straight here, eager to practice without five doctors breathing up my neck.

"I'm looking forward to it," I smiled. John raised an eyebrow at me. "What?"

"You used a contraction," John looks proudly at me. Now it is my turn to raise an eyebrow.

"I use contractions!" I snap back as we enter his car.

"Not around me!"

"Yes, I do..."

"Really, I never noticed."

"Oh, touché John" I roll my eyes and look out the window. City dissolves into country. I fidget. John's house is far away from the city.

"Here we are!" John grins obnoxiously at me. I roll my eyes yet again and stare at the mansion. A crowd of screaming girls stands in front of it. My eyes widen slightly. John, however, simply drives right through them as if this were normal. Hell, maybe it was normal.

"Cyn, I'm home!" John yells as he enters his house. I follow behind, trying to make myself as small as possible. With my size, it isn't hard to do. A woman, dressed impeccably with obviously-dyed blonde hair, walks downstairs. John walks up to her and kisses her on the lips. I fight back the pang of jealousy I feel. He is _married_.

"Cyn, hon, this is Ekaterina Petrov, the gymnast I've been telling you so mush about. I extend my hand.

"It is a pleasure to meat you, Mrs. Lennon," I grin. She shakes my hand and smiles back but I get the feeling it is forced. "Thank you for letting me stay here."

"No problem," she looks in pain as she says this. I do not think that, if Cynthia had her way, I would be here at all. Let alone living in her house. A little boy runs downstairs.

"Daddy!" he shrieks. John picks him up and he stares curiously at me. "Who's she?"

"I'm Kat," I smile, simplifying my name for the child. "Who are you?"

"Julian. Why do you talk funny?" the boy asks, getting down from his father's arms. I hold back a laugh at Julian's question.

"I'm not from around here," I smile. John snickers and I shoot him a look. He shuts up and tries to look serious. I roll my eyes and deny the urge to facepalm. Grabbing my bag, John takes me to a fairly large room with a bed and a bathroom.

"You'll be staying here," John instructs me, setting my bag down.

"It's lovely, thank you," I turn to unpack my stuff. Half an hour later, I sneak downstairs only to hear Cynthia and John fighting.

"I can't believe you!" Cynthia shrieks. "Having an affair and then bringing her to our _house!_"

"Ekaterina is a _friend_ who needed a place to stay. So I told her to come here. I don't get what the big deal is; we've had people stay over with us before."

"Yes, but they aren't Soviet-Union rejects!"

"What does her being from the Soviet Union have to do with this?"

"I've been wondering the same thing," I say cooly while walking into the room. Cynthia looks about ready to explode. Which is how I feel. "I do not know what on earth you think is happening between me and John but, I assure you, it is _not_ romantic in _any_ way!"

"Oh, don't give me that crap. I know my husband," Cynthia snarls, taking a few steps towards me. I sorely hope she isn't planning on overpowering me; I could beat her in my sleep with one arm.

"There is nothing going on," I growl. She gives an enraged shriek and dashed away. A door slams and John rubs his forehead.

"Women..." he mutters, ignoring my glare. He looks up to me. "Do you know how to cook?"

"Of course I do..." I look around the kitchen. It appears well-stocked.

"Well, Cyn's royally pissed at me so I think we have to fend for ourselves for the night," John grins at me. I shake my head and go to the refrigerator. There is some fish wrapped in paper, obviously intended for tonight's dinner.

"I can work with this," I say, more to myself than anything else. Lord knows we eat enough seafood in Leningrad.

Half an hour later, food is on the table. John takes a bite and looks at me with shock.

"This is _really_ good!" he comments before grabbing another bite. I smirk.

"Always the tone of surprise," I laugh before giving Julian a plate.

We eat dinner, do dishes and send Julian to bed. I turn to John, who has been looking for Cynthia. By the look on his face, I doubt he found her.

"Maybe she went for a walk," I reason. John hesitates for a moment before nodding in agreement. Just then, the door opens. I smirk at him. "See, walk."

What neither of us were expecting was for Cynthia to enter the house with two men wearing all black.

"There she is!" she yells, pointing at me. Before I can do anything, strong arms envelop me in a headlock. I struggle, knowing John is doing the same. A hood slips over my head. The last thing I know before I pass out is the sickly sweet smell of chemicals.

**Yes, I made Cynthia the bad guy. I suck... Anyway, no flaming please. Forgot to mention that...well, review. Love you all, sorry for the delay, BYEEEE!**


	5. John

**Hello, viewers. Remember this? It has been quite a while...I have to be in a certain mood to write chapters for this story. It's weird. Anyway, here it is. Don't get your hopes up for a quick update. Whenever I try to rush this story, I end up with a load of crap.**

**Well, I noticed my portrayal of Cynthia turned a lot of heads. Two words, people: Fan. Fiction. If you want my honest opinion of Cynthia, read Lost and Found. She is amazing and deserved a lot better than John. What he did to her was awful on so many levels. All I needed was a big bad guy and Cynthia had the most motivation. Even though I HIGHLY doubt she would do it in real life. Hey, there also is no Ekaterina Petrovia (except in my head). I'm screwing with reality here anyway :)**

**Which brings me to my final point. Someone pointed out way in chapter one that Ekaterina's last name would probably be Petrovia, as opposed to Petrov, which is what it used to be. So I inserted it and the whole shish kabob flowed much better. So that is officially her last name.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles**

My head is pounding as I come around. It takes a few seconds for my surroundings to register. I am in a dark room, handcuffed. Due to the shaking, I would guess a train. Oh, член палаты лордов, they're taking me back.

Minutes blur to hours, hours blur to days. I am released to use the restroom and to eat minimal amounts of food, but I am otherwise constrained to this room.

"Боже, помоги мне. Помогите мне пожалуйста," I pray quietly. There isn't much else to do here. Just sit and think and pray. Did John have anything to do with this? No. John wouldn't do this to me. At least, I don't think he would. Nothing is certain anymore.

It is cold. Very cold. Like Siberia in winter. It would not surprise me if that is where we are right now, actually. So I huddle in a ball to conserve every bit of heat that I can. There is no way they would bother to put heating in a car intended to carry prisoners. Which is what I am. A prisoner. What a gruff word...prisoner.

Sensation has been long gone from my limbs when we stop and I am dragged from the car to a blissfully heated concrete building. Normally I would be scared but I'm too cold to care right now.

Another cell, although it is a much more comfortable temperature. I get food and water and am left to sit. A few more days pass before I am summoned.

I glimpse myself in a mirror. All weight I had put on in London is gone, my hair is tangled and my clothes are dirty. But I do not see someone who has been defeated. I may be beaten yet I am still fighting.

"Hello, Miss Petrovia," a heavyset man approaches me with an accent very similar to my own.

"Who are you?" I glare daggers at him. "You have no right to abduct me."

He laughs. "No right! You, child, attempted to flee the loving, welcoming arms of our mother country! Left behind your brothers and sisters for _England_."

The contempt he places on the last word is unmistakable. I scowl and glare daggers at him.

"They _will _come for me," A lie. We both know it. No one is coming. No one could.

"To answer your first question, I am Maximillion. That is all you need to know," he walks towards me. I refuse to move, not a millimeter. I will not give him the pleasure of scaring me.

"Did you know you were followed?" Maximillion sits behind a desk, gesturing for me to sit down as well. I refuse.

"Who?" the strain is evident on my face, I am sure.

"A man by the name of John Lennon. You have made friends," he leans forward, gesturing to a guard. The guard disappears behind a corner and returns a second later, dragging John with him.

"Kat," he whispers, trying to pull himself free from the man who is obviously much stronger than him.

"John, stop."

Cynthia walks behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders. John flinches away as I stare angrily at the woman.

"Get away from me," he snarls. I feel a bit of pride and perhaps...hope. No, hope is completely inappropriate for these circumstances. There is no chance of escape this time.

"But John, you belong with me. I was saving you from that Soviet...bitch," Cynthia tries to kiss him but John pushes her away.

"She is a better woman than you will ever be," he growled. I glare at Cynthia again.

"Well...she...you..." Cynthia sputters before regaining her wits. "Fine! You can have that bitch. See if I care!"

She thankfully storms out, leaving only myself, John and Maximillion.

"Well, Ekaterina. Claiming John Lennon's heart as well. You have been most busy indeed," he stands and circles me.

"Let us go," I growl. Maximillion laughs again.

"I'm sorry, child, but I cannot do that. I will give you one minute to say goodbye to your lover," he storms out. The instant he is gone, John's arms are around me and his lips are feverishly meeting mine.

"John-" he cuts me off.

"No time," he whispers. He is right. I wrap my arms around his neck and meet his lips with equal passion. Oh, if we could only have more time...

Someone is pulling me away from John, but I don't care. All that matters is staying with him. Someone is crying no, and it crosses my mind that it may be me. John is fighting to, reaching for me. Our lips meet one last time, one last memory before he is cruelly ripped from me.

I am vaguely aware that I am being shoved in my cell again. As soon as the door slams shut, I do the thing I swore never to do. I curl up in a ball and cry like I have lost a portion of my soul, which, in a way, I have.

**Just out of curiosity, did anyone see that coming? I had planned that out for ages...anyway, review, review, review, thank you all for following this, despite my awful way of updating this.**


	6. RUNNING IS UP FOR ADOPTION

**Okay, this is going to be an author's note. Sorry.**

**Firstly, I would like to personally apologize for those last two chapters. I took a really cool story idea and trashed it with arguably the worst Mary-Sue I have ever published. At least Ali was endearing...ish :) Anyway, it's just painful for me to read now.**

**Secondly, I'm putting this up for adoption if anyone wants it. If no one claims it, assume Ekaterina stays in the Soviet Union and gets over John like a normal person. I really am just out of ideas for this and I can't redeem it. Sorry if I'm letting anyone down here, but it's beyond hope. Just...god, I want to slap myself sometimes.**

**Recap: RUNNING IS UP FOR ADOPTION SORRY FOLKS if you want it, float me a PM**

**Thanks, Ali**


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